Beata Beatrix
by jisaly
Summary: Duality runs throughout his life. This job will either lead to his salvation or destruction. This job is both an inception and an extraction. But is he the extractor or the mark?


"He's my friend. I wouldn't be able to do it to him."

On the other end of the line, Miles's voice sounds especially distant, tinged with fatigue. "If you're his friend, then don't think of this offer as a job. Think of it as a chance to save him."

"I hope you're not planning to have me act as the extractor."

"Oh no, that isn't your forte. I've found someone else. How soon can you get to Paris?"

A one-way trip from Moscow to Paris, approximately three and a half hours, ticket price inconsequential for a man of Arthur's financial status. He wrapped up his last job five months ago, and the briefcase containing the PASIV has acquired a layer of dust that would've been unacceptable to his former self. It's not an uncomfortable life, this mere existence, this hibernation. Nevertheless, Miles's phone call triggers something in him. Scanning the hotel room, he feels distaste prickling his long-idle fingers as he becomes aware of the vodka bottles near the bed and the shirts tossed haphazardly on the couch. He has become a shade of himself just like…

"I'll be there by tomorrow morning," Arthur answers finally.

"Thank you. We'll be waiting for you at the warehouse."

* * *

_ "…relate to me some strange story to beguile our waking hour:—and I will relate to thee a story that shall, if it be the will of God, be the means of procuring deliverance" ~ One Thousand and One Nights_

She's an extractor, not an architect, but the old man had been her favorite professor so Ariadne finds herself knocking on his office door and feeling nostalgic when he says, "Come in" and "There's a fresh pot of earl grey on the table. Would you care for a cup?"

With other people, some small talk would usually be included in the conversation. In the past, she would've casually inquired about his grandkids, the two tots whose pictures never left his desk, but that topic would lead to their mother and their father and who knew exactly how complicated that situation was. Ariadne had met Mal only once, but had frequently listened like a young girl, awed by her older sister's daring, when Miles used to describe his daughter's adventures.

"Your last employer was very pleased with you," Miles remarks. "He didn't expect such exceptional work from someone so young."

"People are always like that, so fixated on appearances," Ariadne says with a shrug before adding, "I think being this young makes it easier actually. The Mark rarely suspects the harmless little girl so he leaves his guard down and allows her to freely wreak havoc."

"L'enfant terrible," Miles says quietly, and there is a subdued tone of melancholy in his throat. "I must confess that in retrospect, I regret giving you the career advice that I gave. You were too young then, and you're still so young now. The reason why I've asked you to come today though is because you possess talent on a level incredibly inconsistent with your age."

Eyes wide and understanding, she asks, "Are you offering me a job?"

And he explains his proposition. The idea piques Ariadne's interest immediately. Inception is a myth in her realm of work, but she has persistently believed in its infinite possibility.

"You know, you always were my most intriguing professor," she says as their meeting concludes.

"And you consistently held the title of most mischievous student," Miles replies.

"Except for…"

"Well yes, but that's a different story."

They part ways, and two days later, Ariadne meets the rest of the team in Miles's flat where she nods in recognition toward each face. The forger, the chemist, and the point man have well-regarded reputations, but the last person to enter the flat is completely unexpected. The stranger, an Asian man in his late forties, strides in as if he owns the place and sits down with a smug smile next to Eames.

"More tea?" he asks pleasantly, and Ariadne hates herself for making such an amateur mistake.

"Drugging your guests doesn't exactly contribute to a trustworthy working relationship," she tells him in annoyance, dropping her cup onto the floor where it spreads lazily across the carpet, a permanent stain in an ephemeral world.

"You never used to mind my classroom demonstrations," Miles chides in a stranger's voice.

They are all professionals, but even they ask for repeated explanations and further elaborations as Miles walks them through the plan. Each member of the team has a part or two to play, but Miles looks pointedly at her when he says,

"Be Scheherazade. Feed him your stories and delude him, but do not forget that you are the narrator who controls the pace, who holds the power."

* * *

Eames comments that she is the female version of what Arthur used to be, which reminds Ariadne of how her mother used to tell her to dress younger, and Miles decides that her standard attire simply won't do. The next time she dreams, she lets down her hair and imagines herself in grey jeans, a band T-shirt, and the floral fringed scarf that she hasn't touched since high school. She hums as she walks through the corridors of her former university, acting the part of eager ingénue when Miles at long last introduces her to Cobb whose blue eyes radiate with a sort of frenetic energy. He's calm and nervous at the same time as if he can't contain something within himself, as if he's standing on the same ledge his wife stood on, and all Ariadne has to do is give him a little shove.

This job is the most fun she has had in a long time, she realizes, as she illustrates Paris for Cobb, recreating the bustling marché that offers live _lapins_ and mushrooms still coated with earth. Her pedestrians ignore the street corner musician, a crowd of uniformed children flood out of an _école élémentaire_, and Ariadne becomes a little too playful when she folds Paris like basic origami.

"Impressive," Cobb murmurs, and she listens carefully for a hint of doubt or suspicion.

But Cobb only continues his instruction like an oblivious professor who never quite realizes why his students are all giggling madly. Time to bait the beast, she decides as she builds and breaks a mirror bridge. As expected, Mal emerges, and Ariadne can't really blame the woman (projection) for stabbing her because it's a protective measure to keep outsiders where they belong. An act of love if one thinks about it in an open-minded way.

Still, the knife leaves an aching imprint, and when the team (sans Miles) questions her, she'll say that the projection was a territorial bitch. When she is alone with Miles later, Ariadne will say vaguely, "She was lovely."

When the job shifts landscapes from Paris to Mombasa, Cobb's subconscious is actively more hostile. The man himself though remains strangely unsuspecting, stubbornly squeezing through impossible alleyways and gladly climbing into the rescue car that shows up just on time.

"He's easily distracted," Ariadne muses aloud. "I would've expected him to guard his secrets more closely, but getting into that basement turned out to be quite simple."

"Or perhaps he allowed you," Arthur says and then randomly, "Like Merlin."

She frowns. "I'm more familiar with Greek mythology so would you care to elaborate?"

"As the legend goes, Merlin fell in love with his protégé, a shadowy figure who has a dozen or so mythological names, but the most common term would be Lady of the Lake. She in turn refused to give him her love unless he revealed all the secrets of his magic, and when he became useless to her, she trapped and entombed him in a cave. Merlin, who possessed the gift of foresight, knew that this would eventually happen, but he did nothing to prevent it."

Ariadne is silent for a long time before she says, "Well, it's a shame Cobb isn't in love with me. That would make things much easier."

Arthur smiles humorlessly, and they both turn back to their work. She can't concentrate for the rest of the evening though and instead wonders over and over again why she feels so guilty.

* * *

Several years ago, when she had still been just another university student, Ariadne had taken enough semesters of Italian to realize that English couldn't illuminate the work of Dante and that unrequited love produced absolutely gorgeous poetry. After all, when you love someone from afar and don't really know the person, you overlook the flaws. They are perfect because you love them, and you love them because they are perfect.

In limbo, Mal is waiting for them, beautiful and terrifying as she listens to her husband confess, and he can't forgive himself so he'll stay with her and never ever leave her to keep his promise.

"No," Ariadne says, knowing she has to intervene now or she will lose him. "No, you cannot stay here Cobb, not to keep a ghost company. She will trap you here, and you will never see your kids again."

"Who are you?" Mal snarls, a live Medusa as the tendrils of her dark hair whip about in the harsh wind. "You're not here to help him. You tell him lies. You and my own father, conspiring to keep us apart."

Ariadne takes a step back. "Cobb, why did we come here? We came to retrieve Fischer so we can finish the job –"

"There is no job!" Mal shrieks.

"And when we finish the job, you can go back home," Ariadne continues, ignoring the other woman's hateful eyes. "You can go back to your kids. Trust me and come back to the world of the living."

She sees Mal move out of the corner of her vision and scrambles for her gun. She's only trying to save him, and all she can hope for is that he realizes this.

* * *

A month after the inception job, Ariadne's on vacation in Florence. She's skimming _La Vita Nuova_, the one from her college days, at a café frequented mostly by tourists when a waiter comes by and hands her a note written in an unfamiliar, elegant scrawl.

_Miles refused to tell me anything about you so first, I must apologize for delivering my thanks so belatedly. I understand that you may not want to ever see me or talk to me again, and though I might never know you, I am content to know of you for you have been more beneficial to me than Beatrice was for Dante. And so la gloriosa donna della mia mente, I remain eternally obliged._

_

* * *

_

* La gloriosa donna della mia mente – used by Dante to refer to Beatrice as "the glorious lady of my mind"


End file.
